


‘Til Our Life Shall Be Done

by Meduseld



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, My take on the arranged marriage trope, Tragic pasts for them both, cross cultural relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 02:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11244627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meduseld/pseuds/Meduseld
Summary: A marriage is a union, symbolic or otherwise. (Or, the second proposal in Bard’s life)





	‘Til Our Life Shall Be Done

Bard has been proposed to twice in his life.

 

The first had been Esgred, whose hands had been as rough and calloused as his own, handing him a fishing spear before saying “When are we going to get married, then?” It was her way and for it, he’d loved her completely.

It was her way when she was dying: “I’m going now Bard. That’s all”.

His second proposal was more unexpected. Thranduil calls him to his tent, grander than any home Bard has ever known, even the Master’s old house, serves him wine better than he has ever tasted, and asks for his hand. His tone matches Esgred’s, but the question is worlds apart, for all that it has the same end.

Thranduil, after all, is not proposing a love match.

 

Their marriage would be symbolic, the elf continues, as Bard stares into his cup of wine. A union of their people, a tangible alliance. Both Bard and Thranduil are fathers, their lineage is secure. No further heir would be required. Unspoken is the fact that Bard’s life is but a flicker to those who dwell in the Woodland realm. Thranduil will not be bound to him for long.

“Why are you asking?”

Thranduil’s lips purse. A sign of frustration so clear he might as well have knocked over the table. “I have told you, it would be strateg-" "Why are _you_ asking?”

The light catches his hair as he angles his head, his jaw moving almost imperceptibly. Bard doesn’t know when he learned to read him so clearly. Directness has never been a strong suit of the elves, but perhaps that is because their movements give away so much. No wonder they seek stillness.

His hands, by contrast, won’t stop fiddling with his empty cup. It is smoother than any cup found in Laketown or Dale. Or Gondor, probably. If it’s a traveling cup, it must be amongst the least valuable in Thranduil’s possession.

 

The thought makes him put the cup down, and his hand slides onto the surface of the table, looking for grooves or scrapes. It stops next to the Elvenking’s.

The Elvenking. And he’s ask to marry Bard, Bard the fisherman, the bargeman, the smuggler. The bowman too, but there are elven bowmen a plenty in the woods.

Bard the Dragonslayer maybe. But one deed does not make a king.

Thranduil’s hand finally twitches, his fingertips barely grazing Bard’s. “Because it would be no hardship. To be married to you”. On his lips there is only the suggestion of a smile.

Bard’s hand, hard and calloused and human, takes the moon-pale, cool, hand in his. There is a strength there that he covets. He sweeps his thumb on the back of Thranduil’s hand, hairless and smooth. With every stroke the smile starts forming on Thranduil’s lips.

 

Perhaps their marriage need not be a cold one.


End file.
